Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, or Divergent, I'm not saying I am, and I'm not making any profit from this (although that would be nice).
Friday, 22nd August 2014
The Support Group back in England was pretty shit. I understand that they were doing what they could on a NHS fund, but overall, it didn't help much. That means for the one here in Chicago, my hopes are as low as they can be.
As I walk into the hall, the size of the group intrigues me. In England, the group'd had twenty to thirty people in it, with four condescending assholes who called themselves 'Social Workers'. But, this new group seems much smaller; There are seven teenagers all sat in a semi-circle, and two adults in front of them. Two of the seats are empty, both either side of a girl with a snarl on her face and a buzz-cut. After nodding at the man and woman at the front of the room, I take a seat.
"It's nice to see a new face here today, and I believe we will have another person joining us this session."
It was explained before this moment that all the kids are given numbers, and they'll be referred to by those numbers until they offer up their names. My number is Six, judging my the placement of my seat.
I take a few minutes to look around the room at the glum faces of the other teens. In seat number one, there's a girl, she looks older than me, but not by much; She's got light brown hair, and soft features. The dark circles under her eyes and gormless expression on her face are the only things that make her seem unapproachable. She's wearing nice, stylish clothes and her hair is clean and shiny, but her eyes are so devilish that I'm guessing it'd scare away most people.
Another girl is in spot number two. She's got dark skin and short hair, her face pissed off and angry with the world. Her body is petite, but strong, it's only muscle on her bones.
Number three is a boy. He's got blonde shaggy hair and light green eyes. He seems approachable, but I'm sure he's just as fucked up as the rest of us.
Seat number four is empty.
The girl with the buzz-cut is in number five, next to me. As I look at her, her dark eyes stare straight ahead. Arms crossed, legs carelessly flung forward, clothes dark and ratty. She obviously doesn't give two shits.
The two boys in seats seven and eight look very similar: related, maybe? They both have dark curly hair, smooth, caramel skin, and gorgeous, sleek features. The same loss in their eyes.
Lastly, the girl in number nine. She looks completely normal. Whatever 'normal' is. She's got brown hair, brown eyes, pink lips, a slight body, pale skin. There was nothing significant about her; But, then again, there isn't with me either.
My short blonde hair hangs straight above my shoulders, but is covered by a dark beanie. My skin is pale. My eyes are blue. Blue eyes, pale skin and blonde hair mean lack of pigment. Lack of pigment means nothing much. Nothing much is what I a—
The door slams harshly against the peeling walls of the community centre. All eyes turn to the back to see a boy, or maybe a man, walking over. His limbs are long, but full. Shoulders are broad, but built. Legs, muscular, but slim. His hair is dark, curly, flicking up as it meets his ears, or his neck. But, his eyes. His eyes are the most interesting thing in the room.
"Number four, so glad you could make it." The man says, looking at the boy—number four—with trust in his eyes, not fear.
"Okay, let's get started…" the woman says. "I'm Tori. This is Amar. And we're here to help you talk about your experiences and maybe let you move on from them," she explains. "We're not here to watch your grumpy faces stare at us for an hour before letting you leave only to come back two days later with the same sullen mugs. We promise to help you, if you promise to help yourselves."
"I think this goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway; Whatever is said in this room, stays in this room. This is not a place of judgement, and we will not laugh at anybody for what they say, or do, in these sessions… Does anybody feel like sharing?"
Number one clears her throat, sits up and clasps her hands together in her lap. She seems like a nice girl, was probably brought up in a nice house, with a nice family and a nice life, but I know what a 'nice' life can do to a person. It makes them numb, reckless, the need to feel something, anything, builds up inside until they finally snap—like a branch from an old Oak tree, the weight of itself, pulling it down, down until it finally gives way and… crack. All you've got left is an unhappy tree and a dying, deprived branch, rotting away on the ground.
"My name is Shauna. I'm eighteen, and I'm here because I have a drinking problem."
"Thank you for sharing, Shauna," Tori says, again everyone nods to Shauna, and then moves on. This goes on a while…
Number seven is called Zeke. He starts talking about how he was pulled into a gang at the age of thirteen—he's seventeen now—and was recently arrested for fighting, therefore prompting the help.
"Um, so yeah, I can't say I'm unhappy being here, getting help, y'know, so, thanks for that…" he ends. I see people nodding their heads slightly, attention shifting back to the Social Workers.
Lynn—Number Five—rants about her parents, who are also Shauna's parents I find out later, and about 'what do they expect, they neglect us and then cry and shout and scream when they find out that we do drugs, or we drink, or have sex, just to try and get their attention. It's just, I swear, they never even wanted kids, but they've got three, and Shauna and I are not the favourites'.
Uriah—Number Eight, Zeke's brother—explains the feeling he gets, 'the need to punch something, to not only cause pain to the other person, because you see, they're just like us, they need to feel it too, but to also feel it myself, y'know. The need to feel anything but the pain you get at home, or in school or in fucking church, I don't know!'
Then there's Christina—Number Two, god she's a handful—she talks about her experience with the school bully. 'But, oh no, you laugh, it may not seem like a big deal, aww she gets bullied, poor girl, but no, this guy, he was relentless, a psychopath, he just would not stop! Every day, the fear of seeing him, every night, the pain of letting it happen. It's just a vicious cycle'.
Christina's boyfriend Will—Number Three—had his own experience with bullying. 'The family friend who you don't like, who gives you the creeps, but you have to withstand for your parent's sake. And then when you try and tell your parents what's happening, they just shrug it off. 'Don't be so silly William, think about other people William, your life is no where near as bad as some people's lives, William.' And maybe it's not, I accept that, but like, you are always the centre of your own universe. You only have the experiences that you've had, and you can't compare it to anyone else's experiences because, you haven't been through them, so fuck you, mother'.
And last was Marlene, or Mar, as she preferred—Number Nine—'You know that person you absolutely hate at school, the one you avoid at all costs, only to get glared at, or cursed at, for no reason. Never had a conversation with this girl ever, and then she follows me home, beats the ever-loving shit out of me, and tells my parents that the bruise she got from me defending myself, was in fact, me bullying her. And she's that sort of girl y'know, the one everyone believes. It not fucking fair, s'all I'm saying'.
Amar looks over at me.
"Would you like to share today, Six?" he asks, smiling minutely at me.
"Uh, I— I can," I say, twisting my fingers together. I see small smile and raising of eyebrows as the people in the room hear my English accent; It's not a particularly posh one, but it's more acceptable than most. "Um, I'm sixteen, moved here, to Chicago, about two weeks ago. I'm from East Anglia in England… Um, yeah…" I look up at Tori and she smiles a smile quirk of the lips and helps me out.
"And why are you here today, Six?"
"I uh…" Oh shit, I hate this part… "I uh, was, um, r-raped continually by my next door neighbour, um, I was fourteen at the time, so was he… And, uh, yeah, so they said that to help me 'get over it', I should go to Support Group Meetings, but, uh, they don't seem to be working…"
"Well, things like this take time, Six, it doesn't just disappear like magic, it takes effort and support, hence the Support Group, and you should know that all the things said inside of these walls, will stay within these walls. You can relax in here, okay?" she smiles warily at me then, and I let out a sigh of relief.
"Number four, would you like to say anything?" Amar asks. All eyes turn to number four. I see his gaze flicker to me. My cheeks heat.
He clears his throat.
"Not particularly."
Feel free to tell me what you think. I may not be the best at keeping up with updates, but I'll try my best. Hope you find my story interesting. - D